


Stick to Your Ribs

by AlulaSpeaks



Series: Wincestmas 2017 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester and Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:16:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlulaSpeaks/pseuds/AlulaSpeaks
Summary: Sam and the peanut butter both go missing. Dean is not amused.





	Stick to Your Ribs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/gifts).



> I may have used Wincestmas as a way to work through every fandom trope I hadn't made it to yet. Standford, check. Sam and dogs? Well you'll see.

The peanut butter is missing. It’s not a big deal. It isn’t. Except for how Dean just bought it, and he spent the last half hour in the guts of one of the old cars in the garage promising himself peanut butter toast when he got that last bolt back in place. Now, he’s in the kitchen, scraped up knuckles stinging from a thorough scrubbing, oil still clinging to his nail beds, staring into a cupboard bereft of peanut butter.

This can only be Sam’s doing and there are going to be words. It’s not nice to hog the peanut butter. Dean’s pretty sure he taught Sam that when he was still a pudgy, rosy-cheeked, pain in the ass. Or you know, a stupidly cute kid with killer puppy-dog eyes. Same difference.

The only problem is that Sam isn’t in the Library, and he isn’t in his room, or the shooting range, or anywhere that someone Sam-sized could reasonably disappear. Dean slips on his boots, grabs his keys and a gun and heads for the door. He’s not worried, okay. There are perfectly reasonable explanations for this. It’s just that a peanut butter-stealing, brother-kidnapping monster suddenly feels like one of them.

Dean races up the steps and out of the bunker, into the crisp winter air. Sam startles, foot twitching where he’s sitting cross-legged in the gravel of the drive, and Dean is about to breathe a sigh of relief when something bursts out of the woods running towards him. Dean swings his gun up on instinct, but he needn’t have bothered.

Turns out the brother-stealing monster is a dog. Dean tucks the gun away while the curly-haired mutt bounds up to Sam, dropping a stick into his hand.

“Good girl,” Sam says, running his free hand over the dog’s head, ruffling her fur. He shoots Dean a sheepish smile from under his bangs and tosses the stick again. The dog barks and runs off after it.

Dean sighs and sits down next to Sam. The missing peanut butter jar is by Sam’s knee, silver spoon stuck in it and Dean picks it up, eyeing the big crater in the middle. His stomach growls and he fiddles with the spoon.

The dog snuffles through the fallen leaves, spinning in circles as her tail wags wildly in her search for the tossed stick. They can’t keep her. Sam has to know that. Not with the lives they lead. But things have been rough lately, what with loosing Jack the way they did. It still hurts to think about. Always will, Dean knows, but he doesn’t want to be the one saying no to Sam right now. All he wanted was a hearty, stick-to-your-ribs snack. He doesn’t want to be the bad guy. 

“Sam…” Dean says, and trails off.

The dog picks up a stick ten times bigger than the one Sam threw. She can barely keep it from dragging on the ground, head cocked to one side and feet dancing in pride. She drops it at Sam’s feet and Sam sinks his fingers into her fur, scratches her behind her ears.

“Someone’s looking for her,” he says, like he knows what Dean’s worried about. He turns her head so Dean can see the patch of fur around her neck that’s been flattened from wearing a collar. “She probably slipped her leash. We should take her to the shelter. She’s just lost.”

There’s something heavy in Sam’s voice and Dean thinks of Jack again. Somewhere out there in the multiverse. Stuck. Lost someplace they can’t ever find him.

Dean can’t fix that, so he clenches his jaw and pulls out his phone and does a quick google search.

“C’mon girl, let's get going.” Sam heaves a sigh and pats the dog on her flank.

Dean grabs Sam’s wrist before he can get up.

“Shelter closes at 5:00. You’ve got some time.” Dean says, waving his phone.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, hopeful and a little surprised.

“Yeah,” Dean says. 

“Hear that, girl,” Sam says, and breaks a chunk off the stick. “We’ll get you home soon, but first you better get it.” Sam teases, waving the stick above the dog’s head until she’s bouncing on her front paws in excitement. He hauls off and tosses it down the lane, turning to look at Dean.

Dean looks away, stirs the spoon in the peanut butter to hide the way Sam’s eyes are twisting him up and brings a heaping spoonful toward his mouth.

“Uh, I wouldn’t.” Sam says, sheepish smile back in full force.

Dean looks at the spoon, noticing for the first time the slobber half dried on the handle. 

“Gross. Right from the spoon?”

The dog comes racing back when she spots the spoon in Dean’s hand. He rolls his eyes and holds it out to her. She wiggles so hard, he’s surprised she doesn’t break herself in half as she licks up the peanut butter, but he’s not really paying much attention, because Sam’s smile is wide and bright and fond. And it isn’t focused on the dog. Dean smiles back, shaking his head.

“You owe me so much peanut butter, man.”

Sam laughs, the dog barks, and Dean is filled up with rib-sticking warmth.


End file.
